


Hidden to almost a loneliness

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [20]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Determined Alistair, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Y i k e s, just city elf things, those conversations with Leliana and Wynne that do not go well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 11:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18314810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Caitwyn Tabris has no feelings, she needs no feelings!  Except, oh wait, she's totally full of feels and no amount of distraction is helpful.  Especially when people she thought were her friends hold certain... views.Good thing Alistair is like a dog with a bone about some things, or these kids would never get anywhere.Sorry for the late post... AGAIN.  Much weary.  But Mondays are easier than Sundays.  Weekends, man.





	Hidden to almost a loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to rancho for the assist with the "Orlesian".

As distractions went, Shale was one of the better ones Caitwyn had ever met.

“Is it still working?”  The golem’s habit of calling her  _ it _ , however, was a little wearing.  At least Shale called everyone  _ it _ , a dismissal of anyone who lacked the forethought to be made of stone.  Caitwyn narrowed her eyes in the waning light of the day as she inspected the grooves in the golem’s shoulders.  Shale had been forced to sit down so she could see what she was doing since climbing onto the golem had been—sadly—out of the question.  The crystals at her feet pulsed with a subdued orange-red glow. There had been several sets of those crystals scattered about the old mage’s cellar.

At first she’d only gathered them because it was habit to lift anything shiny into her pack, but when she’d shown them to Shale the golem had been excited.  Or as excited as a golem could be, she supposed.

“Just a few more to go.”  Shale sighed, but Caitwyn didn’t mind.  Anyone else, and she might’ve taken it personally, but Shale’s indifference was one of the most equally applied she had ever witnessed.  She picked up another crystal and slotted it into place with a click, and the crystals already set in their place pulsed again. Shale didn’t try to make conversation.  Didn’t ask her questions. 

Didn’t watch her with hopeful, gentle eyes.

Shale’s eyes glowed a brilliant white, and held a sum total of zero emotions.  While it had thrown Caitwyn off at first, the golem also meant exactly what it said.  There was no dissembling, no hiding secrets. Just honest annoyance that the world was so full of weak, fleshy creatures.  And birds.

"Ah, I believe that was the last one,” Shale said and stood up.  Caitwyn sidled around the golem and inspected her handiwork. The crystals on Shale’s shoulders matched the ones set in her arms, and that seemed to please the golem.  “How do I look? Am I fearsome? Will I strike terror into the enemy’s heart? Ha! What am I saying? Of course I will. I am a golem and our enemies are only flesh.”

Shale curled her hands into fists and fire bloomed into life around them.  It was a sudden burst of heat on an already hot evening, and Caitwyn danced back a step.  Maethor whined, but stayed put at Caitwyn’s signal. Orange-red light flickered in Shale’s white eyes, but then died as the golem relaxed.

The whole display made Caitwyn smile.  

“I’m a bit worried for myself, and I know you’re on my side,” she said.  Shale regarded her for a silent moment, and then her stony mouth stretched into a grin as well, the white light spilling out into the ever darkening evening.  Shale’s pleased laugh was the rumble of a boulder down a mountainside. 

“It is not just saying that, I assume.”

“No!”  Not exactly.  A little, but it was true.  A walking, talking warrior of stone who didn’t feel pain as a person of flesh and blood might, someone who could use crystals to channel elemental magic, all combined with an entrenched indifference to others worried Caitwyn a little.  Even Sten, with his alien motives, was less worrisome than Shale in some ways. And every day Zevran let slip that though an assassin he might be, he was not without his own qualms. 

Shale, unaware of Caitwyn’s real worry—and likely the golem would not have cared if it knew her mind anyway—laughed again.

“It is amusing that it does not wish to give offence to a golem.  Though wise.”

“I’ll take the compliment, even if its a qualified one.”

That was better.  On easier ground. A grand distraction, Shale.  Caitwyn knew Shale was testing her. Seeing how far it could go, how much it could push.  Testing to see if the fleshy creature was worth following. It kept her on her toes, and her mind occupied as they re-traced their path north.

Shale hummed thoughtfully, then narrowed her eyes as it glanced over Caitwyn’s head.  At over seven feet in height, Shale was even taller than Sten and Caitwyn was glad she was used to being over-topped.  Otherwise she might’ve been a little put out by nearly everyone around her being a bloody giant.

“The other fleshy ones are consuming food.  A disgusting habit, but should not it do this as well?”

Caitwyn glanced over her shoulder.  Leliana was cooking tonight; there was a brace of rabbits in the stew pot courtesy of Caitwyn’s traps, and they smelled delicious.  All those herbs and a healthy accompaniment of mushrooms and wild onions making for an enticing prospect. There was just one problem.

Alistair hung at Leliana’s elbow, eagerly awaiting her to declare supper ready, but as if he could sense Caitwyn’s attention he raised his head and smiled at her.  That crooked, warm smile that set off flutters behind her breastbone, and Maker help her she smiled back. It wasn’t something she could help in the slightest anymore, and it made her legs want to run.  To run as far and fast as she could and hide up a tree. Or run right into his arms.

She was about to deny her need to eat when her stomach rumbled loud enough to make Maethor bark at her.  Glancing back up at Shale and into those opaque, white eyes, Caitwyn shrugged helplessly.

“I suppose I’m naught but weak flesh after all, but thanks for the concern, Shale.  Come on, boy,” she called to her dog and left an indignant golem behind her. Maybe if she sat between Sten and Morrigan, Alistair would take the hint.  He’d been trying to talk to her since they left Honnleath that afternoon, but her scouting had kept him at a reasonable distance. He must see supper as his chance.  Well, she’d just have to outlast him on this point. Then they could go back to being fellow Wardens and friends. Nothing more.

Even if those flutters wouldn’t go away.

 

* * *

 

“Oui!  Tres bien, Caitwyn, tres bien!” Leliana enthused.  Caitwyn’s ears warmed at the praise. As per usual, they were the first two awake, though Caitwyn wondered if Shale counted since the golem didn’t sleep.  Regardless, the golem sat at a remove, her gaze tracking out over anything that wasn’t the village of Honnleath with fervor. They were near the height of summer now, and Caitwyn gratefully sat in front of Leliana to let the other woman put her hair up while she practiced learning another language.

She’d never done anything like that before.  The math was one thing, a puzzle of numbers and letters that stayed put.  Languages, however, were alive, and though they followed patterns, the rules were more like guidelines than hard and fast requirements.

It also kept her mind blessedly occupied.

“ Vraiment?  Je ne me sens pas bien,” Caitwyn demurred.  In Orlesian. Leliana rolled her eyes at the denial.

“You know you are doing well, though that phrase was not quite right.”

“Well, how should I say it?”

“I… I must admit I do not know.  I am sorry, but I have never taught someone a language before.  I am terribly sorry.” Caitwyn’s brows knit in frustration at Leliana’s lapse, but she couldn’t blame the other woman for not being an expert at  _ teaching _ Orlesian.  The bard brightened quickly, however, and rattled off some reassuring praise. “You already understand the basics of the grammar, and you are picking up words at a rapid rate.  Why, I believe you will be fluent before long. Though, we must do something about your accent. There, I can certainly be more helpful.” 

Leliana tested the hold of the braid as she spoke, and Caitwyn was glad she would have her hair off her neck as the day was already warm and sticky.  When the sun came up fully, it would be a cloying heat.

“It’s a bit Fereldan isn’t it?”  Caitwyn grimaced, but Leliana waved her hand as if it was no matter.  

“It will take a bit more effort, yes, but it can be done.  It has to do with how you form the words, not the words themselves.  If that makes sense?”

“I think so.”  

“Then good!  We shall focus on that next.”  Caitwyn grinned as Leliana set up the next task for her to learn.  “When you scout today, if you have the time, sound out the alphabet slowly, but with Orlesian pronunciation.  That might help fix things for you.”

“I’ll do that!”

Come their noon-day halt, the sun blazed high in the sky and pounded relentlessly on their heads, and Caitwyn was nearly out of her mind for saying the alphabet over and over.  She’d had to switch to practicing pronouncing all the words she knew, one after the next until they sounded like how Leliana said them. She forced herself to eat a bit of bread and fruit and made straight for the tree that Leliana sat under,  _ not _ noticing Alistair sitting by himself.  

“Comment ça va, Caitwyn?” Leliana asked even as she drooped from the heat.  Only Sten and Zevran didn’t seem terribly affected, but they were both from further north.

“Ça va.”  Caitwyn sat down heavily, tugging her hood back from her face.  It offered some protection from the heat and the glare of the sun, but in the relative cool of a tree’s shade, she wanted the stifling thing off.  “Mais… damn, I lost it.” She rubbed her eyes tiredly, the heat sapping her energy away.

“I can tell your accent has improved already, so you should take heart from that.”  It was kind of Leliana to say, though Caitwyn didn’t think so herself.

“I’ll take your word for it.  But it's so different from how I’m used to talking.  Bad enough that I have to slow down so you all can understand me, but the sounds are so different.  All soft and unfinished, not like Fereldan. Can’t Orlesians finish their words properly?”

“I’ll ask the Empress the next time I see her.  Perhaps she can institute linguistic reforms.” Leliana’s mouth curved with amusement, but she raised an eyebrow at Caitwyn.  “Though, I must ask, you speak more slowly with us? I have not noticed that you speak terribly slowly.”

“Oh, you’ve never heard how I really sound.  I suppose Alistair and Morrigan have, but…” Caitwyn trailed off and waved absently.  “Doesn’t really matter. Becoming a habit to talk like this anyway.”

“Come now, you cannot tell me something like this and not let me hear it!”  Leliana nudged Caitwyn’s shoulder with her own. Caitwyn wanted to resist, wanted to plead a headache from the sun, but she liked the way Leliana talked to her.  Like it didn’t matter she was human and Caitwyn was an elf. And, it had been a while since she’d sounded right to her own ears.

“Thereyego, twistingmeownarm.  SupposeIshouldgiveyouabitofataste.  Satethecuriositylike, yeah? ProperAlienagepatterthisis.”  Grinning at the other woman guilelessly, Caitwyn waited for Leliana to catch up to the pepper spray of words, each one fast on the heels of each other, the vowels a touch more exaggerated than a human would say them.  Leliana blinked, momentarily overcome by the onslaught of words, and then she laughed, the sound like small silver bells.

“Oh, that was remarkable!  I can see why you speak slower for us, though I am sorry you have to.”  The smile faded, however, as Leliana’s gaze turned inward. Lips pursed and eyebrows arched with concern, Leliana asked, “Tell me, did  you always live in an Alienage? Was it very terrible?”

Caitwyn froze.

Oh no.  She did not want to have this conversation.  Not with  _ anyone _ .  Her past was gone and behind her, Duncan said.  At first it had been hard to believe that, to escape how the ghosts of the dead and wounded clung to her.  It had taken her these past two months to reach the point where she didn’t think about it all the time, and now Leliana was threatening to dredge it all up again.  She gave the most non-committal answer she could, hoping Leliana would pick up on her desire to not talk about this. Leliana persisted, persisted in telling Caitwyn about elves in Orlais until she said the one thing that Caitwyn couldn’t pretend to ignore.

“A well-trained elven servant is highly valuable in Orlais.  They are nimble and dextrous, and many people find them pleasing to look at.”  It was said with such equanimity, such  _ fact _ , that Caitwyn could scarcely believe it.   _ Nimble.  _  Her chest tightened.   _ Dextrous _ .  Her jaw clenched.   _ Pleasing to look at _ .  Her hands curled into fists, her whole body trembling.

_ Aren’t you a pretty one? _ A dead man’s voice taunted her.  Cruel, hungry eyes roaming over her body.  Soft hands that had never known hardship had held Shianni down.

“Like a prized animal?”  The words left her like daggers, each one sharp and clear and aimed to hurt.

“No!  I did not mean it that way!” Leliana protested.  Her mouth hung open in aggrieved shock, but Caitwyn didn’t believe it.  She was upset at being  _ found out _ to be just like the other humans Caitwyn had known. “My words were clumsily chosen, I didn’t mean to offend.  I… I am sorry.”

“I—we—are people, Leliana.  Not just elves.” The apology was paltry.  Clumsy words. Not meaning to offend. No. She wasn’t sorry for what she’d said, but how she said it.  Leliana kept talking, and not long ago Caitwyn might’ve listened. She might have done her best to appease the human and put them back on good terms.  But now. Now she was a Grey Warden. She was leading this little band. And she didn’t have to tolerate being seen like  _ that _ anymore.

Leliana, finally aware that Caitwyn had stopped listening, sunk back against the tree and stopped talking.  Finally.

“We’re moving out,” Caitwyn called to the others.  She didn’t wait for protests or acknowledgement. She took off at a brisk trot and whistled for Matheor to follow her back to the trail.  Tiredness forgotten, the heat of the sun paled in comparison to the fire that burned in her brain.  _ Pleasing to look at _ .

She picked up her pace, and Maethor began to pant as he lengthed his stride to keep up with her.   Sweat ran down Caitwyn’s back, and she paused only long enough to leave trail markers. When she flagged, when the heat or the grade of a slope made her think about pausing, she grit her teeth and pushed herself further.  To keep going. Her legs regained their spring, and her heart sped up. It was as though she had just awoken from a good sleep the morning after a hearty meal. Rather than delighting in the fierce exertion, Caitwyn’s mind churned over an old wound that had just been torn open.

How could she have ever thought a human would look at her and see anything other than en elf?  Anything other than a knife-ear. A  _ thing _ .  Pretty, like a painting.  Like a sculpture. Like something you could  _ own _ .  Tears didn’t trace down her cheeks.  That was too old a hurt to be worth crying about anymore.

Did Alistair see her the same way?  Had he hidden his thoughts the way Leliana had?  Some part of her scoffed at the very idea. Alistair hiding how he felt?  Impossible. But he had hidden his parentage from her, could he not hide something else?

At the thought of him, for the first time in nearly two days, there wasn’t a single flutter.  

She hated that she missed it being there at all.

 

* * *

 

“Warden!”  

Caitwyn frowned, but stopped.  The sun was halfway between noon and the horizon, and they still had a long way to go if they were get to Orzammar in a reasonable amount of time.  She’d have to consult the maps tonight, maybe before and after dinner. That way no one would try to talk to her while she was in her current snappy mood.

“What is it, Zevran?” she asked as she turned around.  Zevran trotted up next to her, his tanned skin flushed for the heat and the exertion of catching up to her.

“I have been asked to relay a message from Leliana, though why our dear Bard could not deliver the message herself was a mystery to me.”  Caitwyn forced her breathing to remain even, and she pulled one of her old masks over her face. The bland, unaffected girl, the girl who was polite and attentive but nothing more.  Zevran waved away his own comment before continuing. “It seems Wynne is struggling to keep up at this pace you are setting, though she has not said as much herself. Leliana wished to remind you that… how did she put it?  ‘There’s not quite as much life in those bones as we’d all like.’ Yes, that was it. Does that make any sense to you?”

Zevran watched her with mild interest, and Caitwyn nodded.  Nearly killing an old woman because she was angry at someone else, very well done she taunted herself.  Very well done.

“We can stop soon.  Just.. you stay here, wait for everyone else to catch up.  I’ll go on ahead to find a good campsite.”

“A most wise decision.  Though I did not observe Wynne closely, even I noticed she was appearing… run down.  Perhaps, Warden, there is something on your mind? Something you wish to discuss?”

The offer was genuine, Caitwyn thought.  And if anyone,  _ anyone _ , could understand her anger it would be Zevran.  Whatever he had been through in his life left its marks on him.  A tightness around the eyes when he thought no one was watching, a blithe manner that masked a pain he kept close to his chest.  He had to know what it was to be called a knife-ear, to be seen as a thing to be used. He  _ had _ been a thing to be used, a weapon for someone else’s will as long as the price was right.  He had been willing to continue being used, if only to spare his own life.

She shook her head.

“Not now, no.  Just… stay here.  I’ll be back in a tick,” she promised.  Zevran raised his brows in bemused disbelief, but did not press the matter.  She patted her leg, making Maethor raise his head but that was all. “Come on, boy, we need to find a camp.”

Instead of rising to his feet, her loyal and ferocious war dog lowered his head to his paws with a sigh and turned large, sorrowful eyes on her.

“Fine,” she sighed.  “Stay with Zevran. Keep him out of trouble.”  Maethor barked his agreement and wagged his stubby tail.  Zevran shouted his indignation at the suggestion that he would somehow get in trouble on a deserted hillside in the middle of nowhere in the wilds of Ferelden, but Caitwyn was already leaving to find a suitable site to camp with a somewhat lifted heart.

The afternoon passed by quickly enough as she set up camp in advance of the others.  Her own little apology for pushing them so hard today. She winced to see Wynne limping, though no one glared at her in any kind of disapproval.  Instead everyone was too tired to do much more than eat and disperse to their own corner of camp. Caitwyn was grateful for the distance, and especially Leliana’s careful avoidance; it allowed her the chance to apologize to Wynne directly.

Holding out a bit of fruit bread—salvaged from a cupboard in Honnleath—to Wynne, Caitwyn didn’t have to try to appear contrite.  “Sorry, about today. I… I guess I don’t know my own limits these days. Didn’t mean to push so hard.”

Not entirely true, but not entirely false either.  It would do. Wynne smiled tiredly, though without any ill-will apparent in her.  

“Sit, my girl, sit,” the older mage exhorted, and Caitwyn sat.  She didn’t spend much time with Wynne, outside of learning all those math problems.  That had to have been an oversight. So maybe Wynne was a little preachy, a little fussy about some things, she was still an elder like Valendrian.  Caitwyn should’ve taken more care, knowing what she did of Wynne’s condition. She should’ve shown more respect. Her father and the elders would be horrified at her behavior today, no matter that she was a Grey Warden.  Yes, she would spend more time with Wynne and that would help everything. Wynne was human, but from what Wynne said elves and humans of the Circle weren’t different from each other at all. They were all mages, all dealing with the same problems.  Wynne grew up only knowing the Circle, not seeing her people as gutter-trash and roof-rats. Not  _ graceful servants _ .

“Ah, it must be hard on you, having all this weight on your shoulders.  I can only assume you were lost in thought.” 

“Something like that.  It’s just since becoming a Warden, I’ve been stronger, faster.  Sometimes I think even my sense of smell is better, but I can feel the taint that makes me a Warden, too.  It’s… I don’t think we’re supposed to talk about it, but…”

“Go on, dear.”  A kind voice, a  _ wise _ voice.  Yes, this was better.  Caitwyn’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, and she absently scratched Maethor behind his ears.

“I used to know my limits.  What I could and couldn’t do, but being a Grey Warden.  There aren’t limits in some ways. I don’t just mean in terms of what I can do, but.  Garahel, he ended the Fourth Blight, and he was an elf. I grew up hearing stories about him, and that book about Grey Wardens you gave me said that it was all true.  I don’t have to be a servant, I don’t have to scrape and beg my way through life. I’m…”

“Free?”  Wynne finished the thought for her, and Caitwyn nodded.  The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but Wynne often steered conversation toward a lesson of some sort.  Maybe that was why Caitwyn avoided her, but that was a poor excuse for being unkind. She nodded, not sure what she could say to that.  The whole concept that by being a Warden her sins had been covered over wasn’t new, but slowly the notion was taking root. Settling into her as a tree’s roots might crack apart paving stones to find the rich, nourishing soil underneath.  

Wynne picked at the fruit bread in silence, her gaze lingering on the sun setting on the horizon.  Morrigan had cooked, and Sten was cleaning up. The midges were thankfully sparse in this dry land, but Caitwyn hoped to see a few more fireflies.  It occurred to Caitwyn that Wynne was free as well, in a way she probably hadn’t ever been before, and it felt peaceful to sit next to someone else who knew what it was to be seen as a danger, a problem, but who had held on to being a person no matter what.

Into that quiet peace, Wynne spoke up again, “So tell me, how did you become a Grey Warden?”

Caught off guard by the moment, and the abruptness of the question, Caitwyn froze.  A chill enveloped her, and her heart iced over like a puddle in winter. Creaking, cracking, the tendrils of frost unfurling from the edges and making their way to the center.  

She should’ve known better.  Her past simply would not stay her past.  

“I… I killed someone.  Someone important. He had… he had hurt my cousin.”  Hurt, what a small, spare word for what Shianni had been through.  What she was still possibly going through. Death was final. Shianni would know that pain the rest of her life.  She blinked, refusing to cry, but Wynne still gazed serenely out at the vista before them. Caitwyn’s tears went unnoticed, as did her thick, halting words.  

Wynne kept talking, like Leliana had kept talking, not understanding.  Not seeing. And like Leliana this afternoon, Wynne tripped into folly.  “This all happened for a reason,” the old mage mused, “to bring you here and now.  The person we need.”

In spite of the height of summer, ice crept over her heart as it had at the Kendalls estate, encasing her very self in cold.  Maethor raised his head and nudged her hand, the picture of canine concern. He knew. He could sense the change in her. Wynne turned back to Caitwyn, her confidence in her wisdom radiating outward as though she had not suggested the vilest, blackest thing Caitwyn could imagine.  That there was a reason, some reason beyond base cruelty and twisted greed for Shianni being hurt. That Shianni’s suffering had been the part of some grand order to see Caitwyn into the ranks of the Wardens.

She shot to her feet and turned her face away.

“Caitwyn, are you well?” Wynne asked.  Probably had mistaken the shaky inhalation and sudden, agitated movement for stomach trouble.  Bile rose in her throat, but not for the reason Wynne thought.

“I’m fine,” she said shortly.  “Just… need to get more wood for the fire.  Stay here, boy.” Maethor whined, but did as he was told.  Without a backwards glance, Caitwyn disappeared into the sparse tree cover near their camp and scrambled up the sturdiest oak she could find.  Maybe she should have let Maethor come with her, but he would have only licked her cheeks and let her cry. She wanted to be  _ done _ with crying.  Hadn’t she cried enough?  Leaving Denerim, fleeing Ostagar, feeling lost and alone among so many strange people.

She had thought they were her friends, but in the end they didn’t see.  They didn’t understand. The closest,  _ safest _ , friends she had were Morrigan, who was not comfortable with excess emotion, and her dog.  Caitwyn pressed her face into the rough bark of the tree and willed herself to have better control.  To not let herself be taken in by seeming kindness, to not let herself care or show compassion when she received little of the like in return.

She had only wanted distractions, to keep her mind off those flutters in her chest and their cause.  Her wish had been granted in spades.

“You’re a right bloody fool, Caitwyn Tabris.  A right bloody fool.”

 

* * *

 

Alistair caught sight of Caitwyn stalking into the little copse of trees, and his brows drew down in a thoughtful frown.  That was the second time today she had walked off in a huff. It was unlike her, normally so cool and composed. No point in pretending that he hadn’t been paying attention to her for a while now.  That he’d been trying to figure her out, to understand what went on behind those forest-green eyes. That he had been going over and over in his head what he would say to her, how he would say it. 

His plan to mind now, he glanced at his pack.  Perched on top of all the odds and ends he carried, was that rose, carefully arranged so the flower remaned uncrushed.  He’d been trying to find a good time to tell her…  _ things _ .  To give her that flower.  Now seemed like the worst time in the world.  She was upset; irritated at the least, possibly angry at the worst.  But if he kept putting it off, he’d lose his courage for sure. He’d keep finding reasons not to.

“Just this once, Alistair, go for something you want,” he whispered to himself. 

“What was that?” Zevran asked, raising his head from the crook of his arms.

“Ah, nothing.  Just talking to myself, nothing important.”

“T’would hardly be possible, that is certain,” Morrigan drawled.  Alistair grit his teeth, but pushed down the retort that floated to his mind.  It would be too easy to get dragged into a bickering match with Morrigan and miss this chance with Caitwyn.  Not even her dog was with her.

“Entirely correct,” he agreed amiably, which was  _ even better _ than the scathing reply he’d thought of at first.  Morrigan’s jaw dropped in surprise, and he hefted his pack and sidled away from the campfire.  No one followed, though he faintly heard comments about both Wardens acting strangely. Well, maybe they could all put it down to Warden things, then.  That would be handy.

Once under the trees he set down his pack and squinted in the fading light.  He could see fairly well at night, but his eyes hadn’t adjusted from the brightness of the fire just yet.  Then his fingers brushed the still green stem and he smiled. Rose in hand, he stood and scanned the trees for any sign of his fellow Warden.  No, for any sign of  _ Caitwyn _ .

He was going to do this.  Maker help him.


End file.
